Tabula Rasa
by XtinaW
Summary: James Kirk has been -officially- Captain Kirk for less that 24 hours when he's faced with an existential crisis by way of a pretentious bar sign. Using relationships with the Enterprise crew, he tries to solve an age old question. Rated for language
1. Existential

**Disclaimer:** Star Trek belongs to people who are not me. No money is made of this, etc. Basically, I'm just curing boredom by playing with other people's genius.

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Tabula Rasa the sign above the rows of assorted liquor bottles read.

Jim Kirk has heard the phrase before. The origin of his knowledge on this concept was probably impossible to trace. Maybe it had come from some course tracing the origins of various theoretical concepts. Was it from one of the dusty books he'd dragged off the bookcase when he'd been avoiding his step-father? Most likely, Bones had drunkenly lectured about it during his love affair with all things psychological a couple years back.

Regardless of the derivation and relative unfamiliarity Jim had with the term, he found himself laboring over the idea as the _Enterprise_ was docked for repairs and he was only 12 hours into officially being titled "captain" of _his_ ship.

His ship.

Who would have thought? Pike had, of course. Apparently, Jim's mother had been convinced of his greatness, regardless of his incredibly numerous past indiscretions. His brother may have been surprised but he hid it with brotherly praise like "You won't screw this up." Bones swore he wasn't too terribly shocked because James T. Kirk always achieved something, one way or another, when he really wanted it.

Spock had down right _known._ Well, one Spock had, at any rate. But his thoughts on the matter should be irrelevant. Jim wanted them to be because, otherwise, he tended to mesh his views of the two Spocks together and that didn't do anyone a hell of a lot of good. After all, letting it slip meant the entire universe could implode on itself and that was reckless even by Kirk's slightly skewed standards.

Why did whiskey do this to him? Jim shoved his elbows off the bar and leaned against the back of the stool, waving the nearly empty tumbler toward the bartender before draining it in one swift motion.

The burn of the whiskey had faded a couple drinks ago, but the effects were starting. He was sure he'd be moving on to one of his infamously witty rants from his alcohol-erected soap-box before long. Whiskey always did this to him when he was in a mood: it started him thinking along lines far too serious for anyone's liking. Well, save Bones, who reveled in such intoxicated intellectual debates.

Speaking of Bones. "Damnet, Jim," the newly appointed Chief Medical Officer called over the typical bar noise as he reached the bar. "There's an actual party going on. You're the guest of honor, man. What in hell's name are you doing at a damn bar?" Good ol' Bones, eloquent as ever.

"Running through the _nature versus nurture_ debate." Jim took a full tumbler from the leggy, blonde bartender and gave her a nod on appreciation. "Thoughts?"

"Both. Can't go wrong with that." McCoy took the next stool over and ordered a beer, an oddly tame choice, before he made any further commentary. "Why are you trying to be deep? There a cadet somewhere you're trying to impress? Isn't the new title enough now?" Friendly pride filled his voice. McCoy was Jim's closest friend and had actually achieved something more like brother-status.

"Probably," Jim laughed, knowing it was. Then again, having his reputation, Jim didn't really have to work for much. Girls, especially considerably younger, thought they could tame him out of his playboy ways. "But that damn sign," he nodded toward the back wall before gulping from the glass.

McCoy took a long swig from his newly procured bottle before shrugging. "John Locke. Blank slate. What of it?"

"Do we start as a blank slate or do we have a destiny we're going to achieve come hell or high water? Do we even have a damn choice, Bones?"

"I'm a doctor, not a philosopher," McCoy muttered, staring at nothing. "I think it doesn't matter right now."

"Dude," Jim paused then to chug his drink, but Bones stopped him from ordering another. "You're the first one to start in with the philosophizing over drinks. Don't go changing on me now. There's too much damn change already."

Giving him a knowing look, a placating look, McCoy shook his head. "I'll use a hypo on you if you start having some existential crisis on me." Feeling his pockets, he was suddenly hit with the realization that they were off duty, away from the ship, and his threat was useless. No need carrying around a whole arsenal of drugs when you weren't technically in charge of anyone's well-being. Then again, being friends with Jim Kirk was always like being in charge of that. Kind of.

"Calm yourself," Jim muttered and picked up Bones' temporarily forgotten beer. "Just wondering if I was going to be here no matter what or if something I did really put me here."

"Did you miss the part where you saved our asses up there? Oh, yeah, and Earth itself." McCoy scowled as Jim drank his beer, but didn't complain. It was still technically Jim's day however. For another hour or so anyway.

_But I didn't save Vulcan or the ships which beat us there_. The thought weighed on him heavily. Jim had known, but he'd been too slow. The only reason he'd been able to do anything at all was thanks to his friend here, but he should have seen what Nero was doing earlier. Five minutes would have made all the difference.

Ambassador Spock's Kirk would have done that. He'd have _known _way earlier. But he'd led a different life, meaning the Jim Kirks were not as synonymous as Spock had thought. Maybe he had started out a blank slate and then Nero had completely screwed everything. Screwed everything up and then Spock version 1.0 had come along to try to rectify the situation. Therefore adding to the slate Jim had been haphazardly creating, but not helping out fate. Or it could have been this predetermined fate and Jim would have found Scotty and made it back in time anyway.

Pretentious fucking sign.

He nearly choked on the beer as he tried to speak around the last gulp. "Okay, maybe I'm being existential. Leave me to it, will ya?" His voice had an edge which his friend promptly ignored.

Waving over the bartender, McCoy settled Jim's tab. "My gift to you, Captain. Let's get back to this party, right? You have plenty of people begging to see those damn baby blues of yours."

Jim tried to protest, but McCoy had his mind set and wasn't letting Jim sit in this bar and drive himself insane trying to reason out a riddle which had been debated for centuries.

"Nurture versus nature," McCoy muttered under his breath as they broke out into the open air. "Snap to, ol' boy. There are guests to impress. Try to fake some charm," he chuckled, knowing Jim Kirk and Charm were not mutually exclusive concepts.

They had a good five minutes' walk to reach the shindig that they were throwing for him, lucky Jim because he needed that time to make sure he was sober enough to be his usual charismatic self.

"I so got this," he grinned, forcing _Tabula Rasa_ to lock up somewhere in his brain. Never let it be said that Captain Kirk didn't have the emotional control of a saint when he wanted to.

_But not of a Vulcan_. The thought shrewdly shoved his control (and smirk) a notch down for a moment, reminding him that there was some uncharacteristic apologizing he probably should be doing.

They reached the doors and loud music and unintelligible chatter drowned out whatever Bones was saying. The energy of the room really started to infect Jim about that point. He was a Captain, damnet, and he was going to celebrate his promotion in his typical fashion.

Actual grin in place, he made the silent resolution to contact Spock 1.0 and see how much he really was like his alternate self. Existentialism be damned. It shouldn't matter anyway. Life was what you made it and blank slate or fate couldn't change how damn proud of himself Jim should and would be.

It didn't matter, of course. Jim wasn't a blank slate, anymore, either way. Though, just maybe, act two of his life was offering him that literally sign-professed "_Tabula Rasa_."

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**AN:** This is the first Star Trek fic I've ever posted (My previous TOS stuff never seemed good enough), but I'm so supremely in love with the new movie that I couldn't help myself. I feel like I just may be able to do the characters justice in this new timeline.

I know I'm probably beating a dead horse with this concept, but it's been bouncing around in my head so…yeah. And I know we didn't see Jim's brother in the movie, so I'm technically taking a liberty there, I suppose, but he's supposed to be older and it bugs me that he's ignored.

Also, I finally found a way to use SOMETHING I learned while working so hard on that psych degree ($70G well spent haha)! I may or may not at least continue this into another chapter, but it depends on the reception.....Should I go beyond that, there will probably be some romance somewhere along the lines...though I haven't decided if it would become slash or not. So please R&R! (Also, suggestions are totally welcome).

* XTina *


	2. Natural

With time flying by at its typical break-neck pace, Jim found himself with such a list of tasks that there wasn't much unoccupied time to ponder theoretical concerns. With their time on Earth closing out, Jim was presented with an early start to the paperwork he was sure would be the bane of his existence. He was keeping himself apprised of all repairs and simultaneously making sure the _Enterprise_'s crew was intact.

There were transfers which were necessary, but Jim was confident with the finalized crew; and he'd be damned if he was approving additional transfers without one hell of a reason. They had already worked through one crisis of a damn intense caliber, and it wasn't hard to believe they could get through average missions and day-to-day dealings without too much controversy.

Granted, they were mostly young, especially Chekov. Sure, some of them didn't exactly get along, too many to list. But they all knew how to interact. Besides, sometimes a little bickering could be advantageous. When faced with a challenge among peers, it was Jim's experience that people strived to do better. He did, so it was easy to assume others responded in kind.

He shut off the computer terminal, his eyes last resting on the one blank space.

The _Enterprise_ needed a First Officer. Oh, Jim had a choice, but he hadn't put in for it because he had no idea what Spock was doing. His homeworld had just been obliterated, his mother was now dead, and he was essentially on the endangered species list. Even if Jim thought of daring the half-Vulcan to take the position, he couldn't be sure if he'd be doing more damage or putting his own life on the line. But Vulcans, half or not, probably weren't susceptible to the pity necessary to ensure begging would work, either. So, no, Jim would put it off. It was a precarious ledge he was walking.

Good thing James Kirk found himself on literal and proverbial cliffs on a semi-regular basis. He'd wait it out. He'd keep the _TBD_ in the First Officer column and put his faith in the annoying concept of fate. Or he could use this as a legitimate excuse to contact 1.0 and ask both the big questions.

A burning in his eyes reminded Jim to blink; a growling stomach reminded him that he'd skipped lunch. He shifted to his feet and grabbed the first shirt appearing clean; a quick sniff proved that it was at least passable. He set off with a quick dinner as the goal.

Since walking didn't require extensive thought, his mind wandered back to his main crisis. He just needed to know if he was drastically changed because a Romulan had been out of his ever loving mind. From what he could tell, he had to be. Spock 1.0 had such faith in him but 2.0 wasn't exactly a fan. The difference surely transferred to the Kirks. The other Jim Kirk had apparently proven himself a thousand times over and this one hadn't done anything other than wrecking cars, being a general pain in the ass, accumulating a sting of past lovers, and well, that was pretty much it. Heroics not withstanding, of course; but Jim couldn't label himself a _hero_, that was entirely too conceited. Either way, he wasn't exactly the picture of morality. He was rebellious. Had the other him been like that?

Maybe he should refer to Spock 1.0's Kirk as version 1.0 just to force some distance, but he had even more trouble considering himself a rewrite than he did a hero. Mostly because then he should be an upgrade when he was apparently living a less charmed life. Fucking hell, how did you come to terms with the fact that you constantly earned respect in one life and just sort of took it with one fell swoop in another?

Hello, identity crisis. Oh, how you have been missed.

People seemed to be giving him an overly large personal bubble when he reached the off-base restaurant, which meant he was projecting his crumpled-road-map-style thoughts through his expression.

Making a conscious effort to smooth the lines of his face, Jim caught sight of a younger man, barely old enough to own the title, pulling open the door.

"Chekov!" Jim knew the younger man had been having some problems since he failed to pull Spock's mother off Vulcan with the others, which hadn't been helped by the emotional display Jim had forced Spock into.

He didn't think he'd feel this guilty over so many things if they weren't stuck in a holding pattern for ceremonies, repairs, and all of those other lovely things which grounded them. None of them would dwell so much otherwise…assuming the others were stuck on negatives like Jim seemed to be. For the majority, this had been their first real mission. It was a hell of a kick off so it would probably take a little longer for all the metaphorical open wounds to scab and the resulting scars would probably last a bit longer than any subsequent damage.

Chekov jumped at the sound of his name, momentarily freezing. Jim got the distinct impression that the young Russian had been trying to fly under the radar.

"Keptan," he practically squeaked.

"We're a long way from anything formal, boy. It's Kirk tonight, got it?" Jim raised both eyebrows in a playfully challenging look. Maybe he should roll with first names, but there still needed to be some sort of formality. Maintaining that sort of distance was something Jim wasn't sure he'd ever be able to actually adjust to.

"Kirk," Chekov nodded, managing not to close into himself to avoid the interaction.

Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Jim passed him to pull the door open and precede him into the building. "Meeting someone?"

"No, sir" was the response, given as a reflex, but not entirely true. He was glancing around the restaurant with too much interest.

Jim motioned toward a table anyway. "I figure the least I owe you for pulling those Hail Marys is dinner, have a seat."

So thinking about it, Jim knew he wouldn't get refused. Chekov was still young and apparently pretty damn different from Jim, but the boy was a right genius. This could be used as a learning experience. Was a prodigy predetermined or were they post-birth made? If he could figure that out, maybe he'd get this blank slate bull shit boxed up and sealed shut. Plus, wouldn't it be helpful to know his bridge crew a little bit better, outside of work hours?

Understandably, Chekov was a little too nervous to speak for a while. When the waitress came to take their orders, Jim thought it was maybe a reaction to something other than Jim's title. The short brunette was cute, in a high school type of way; all bouncy ponytail and shiny bubblegum lipgloss. She smiled brightly at Chekov, who managed to stutter out a few words and turn eight shades of red without looking up at her until she was returning to the kitchen.

"See something you like?" Jim put in with easy teasing infiltrating his tone. Chekov sputtered something in Russian and his ears burned even darker. "You ever talk to her?"

"No, sir. She's…out of my league." Melancholy threatened to take over the atmosphere.

If he planned on using Chekov to facilitate his own breakthrough, the least he could do was impart some of his wisdom. "Now, look," Jim's voice was all business. "That's never true. You just have to give her something to be interested in. You have a whole book's worth here, use it to your advantage."

"What?"

Jim ticked off his points on his fingers. "One – accent. Ladies love accents. Two – genius. You can regale her with information so far over her head that she'll be in awe. Three – Starfleet. What's the girl, sixteen? She's going to eat that shit up. But you have to look at her first."

Before Chekov could make a response, the girl was back with their drinks. Jim thanked her and Chekov offered her a tentative smile. Baby steps were really all you could hope for. At least Ananda (according to her name badge) lingered a second longer than necessary and seemed to blush herself. Chekov again watched her leave and Jim caught her giggling to a co-worker and looking over her shoulder just after his young companion turned back around.

Jim suddenly knew why they called it puppy love: kids were as awkward as basset hounds with feet and ears too big for their bodies.

Deciding to move along with his ulterior motives, Jim utilized his typical casualness so Chekov was really talking by the time their food arrived.

"All right, you got to tell me," Jim started, speaking rudely around a mouth full of French fries. "What the fuck's it like being the youngest by…a hell of a margin."

For a second Chekov sputtered, either from the question or informal language, before finally coughing to presumably keep himself from choking to death. "It is…difficult sometimes, sir." Jim managed not to cringe at the tacked on title by gulping his drink. "It is constantly having to prove myself. But that is not always bad." He started speaking a little faster, the accent becoming a bit difficult to decipher as he backtracked.

Mercifully, Jim talked over him to refocus the conversation. "No, you deserve to be there, but people have trouble believing you've earned it. I get it." Boy, if anyone understood _that_… "How hard was it for you, though? Getting through everything this damn fast? Hell, how many people have you bypassed anyway?"

The last question was rhetorical and Chekov knew it; yet, he still stalled. "One hundred sewenty-two, sir." When he was rewarded for his sarcasm with a chuckle, Chekov grinned timidly and shrugged. "Not so hard as some thought it. I _like_ it and am good at it."

"Understatement, dude." Stabbing a fork at him, Jim tried to get that point across. "Did you ever think about doing anything else? Or was this…_it_?"

All right, Jimmy boy, moment of truth. If there was never anything else, then this was a nature thing. Otherwise…well…Jim was getting the nurture answer that he really didn't want.

"I am…they say…a natural. Why do anything else?" The confusion on his face was met with thoughtfulness on Jim's.

"Case and point." Throwing down enough to cover the bill, Jim held out a hand. Chekov shook it with a sort of strong grip. "Enjoy yourself." Turning, he looked back over his shoulder with a smirk. "See when _Ananda_'s shift is over and work your magic."

Ignoring the embarrassment radiating from the young man, Jim was decidedly proud of himself. _Really_, damn pleased with himself, actually. Chekov seriously needed some guidance. The boy was a prodigy and Jim trusted him to do his job with the utmost efficiency, but his social skills? Jim owed him a few more little nudges in the right direction for this big kick in the ass he'd just been given.

Score one for Nature! Jim wasn't going to discount nurture completely, but there were some things you just couldn't change. Chekov had said it, he was a natural. And hadn't Jim been considered a wasted genius in his own right more times than he cared to own up to? A prodigal instead of a prodigy, but admittedly intelligent as all get out.

If you were a natural, nurture could only hurt you so much. Jim shoved his hands in his pockets, looking up with that self-satisfied glint back in his eyes. Thank…whatever deity was currently in style…for small miracles.

Now Jim really could get over himself. Unless there was evidence to the contrary. How did you go about really disproving or proving a theory? And this was why Jim had such an intense _hatred _for doing research. It took way too much time. Patience wasn't Jim's virtue of choice, but he knew this thought wasn't going away.

This was getting entirely too confusing. Paradigm after paradigm continued to pile together. He could believe in luck, but not fate. Chekov could prove nature, but Jim didn't know his off-paper backstory enough to really roll with it. Maybe some things were still unsolved for a reason. Well, Jim was going to try to convince himself of that while he went back to considering how to contact 1.0 again.

Right back at step one. "Like a god damned geometric proof."

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**AN: **I don't feel like this chapter turned out as well, which is probably why it ended up being SO long. I hope that didn't make it too tedious to get though. But I finally pulled together a real plan which accomplishes two goals by running through the main characters….unfortunately, Chekov gives me issues no matter how much I love him.

At any rate, THANK YOU SO MUCH for the reviews (and the favoriting/alerting). I really appreciate them and the suggestions I've been given. You guys definitely helped me come to some conclusions. I seriously appreciate it, guys, so THANK YOU again. Please keep the reviews coming. Even a couple give me enough motivation to stop reading, texting, and playing with the dogs to write!

*XTina*


	3. Nurture

Jim had been under the impression that he could wander around without being noticed. Considering he had spent his time at the Academy creating one spectacle after another, he should have known better. Considering he was front page news, he really should have realized the whispers would be even more pronounced than usual. Giving your consciousness over to a thought was a problem when you kept turning to look in the direction of your name being stage-whispered amongst crowds.

Admittedly, when he heard the _Captain_ Kirk mention, he couldn't help but preen a little. It was a reflex, conceit is a hard habit to break.

All the same, he really wanted some quiet, uncharacteristic as it may seem to anyone who tried to attract his attention.

His safety would be getting back to campus. When he was off base and wandering around with the civilians, there was an air of celebrity; but if he could just make it back to the gate, he'd be in the clear. Really, Jim should have realized he'd never be _that_ lucky. It was naïve to assume he could go anywhere without seeing _someone_ he knew and usually that _someone_ wasn't exactly the picture of pleasantries.

When he was met with a very familiar woman's form, he stopped short. Did she have to pop out around corners? Jim altered that line of thought and assumed she was actually there all along and he just hadn't been in the mood to notice. Hot as she was, he still wasn't in the mood to pay her much mind. After the quick once over, anyway. She looked good in non-regulation clothes and nothing would ever make Jim change his tune on that decision. Hotness was hotness, afterall. And her? Yeah, she was smoking.

"Going for a little action out on the town, Uhura?" The infamous Kirk smirk, which had destroyed the willpower of lesser women, was lighting up his face with only a little effort. Such was typical with his acts; he'd perfected them and could turn them on at a moment's notice. Really handy in a tight spot; contrary to popular opinion even though that opinion was mostly perpetuated by Bones.

Uhura raised her eyebrows, clearly as unimpressed as ever. "Is that really any concern of yours?"

Jim shrugged. "Not until we're back on board and I can track your every move."

"I always knew you were a stalker. Gaila once threw a drawer at me for calling you a creeper but then-" Suddenly, her voice caught in her throat. It was going to be a fond memory, this one she was about to recall, but something on the new captain's face turned her fluent tongue into marble.

The grin had drained from his face along with most of his coloring. Uhura had seen Kirk in various states of distress. Usually, there was a neat façade over it, that cocky exterior to keep people from realizing he was putting on a show for his general audience of breathing beings. This time, however, he didn't bother to cover it and she couldn't control herself enough to refrain from calling him on it.

"You don't look so hot, Kirk. Have too much to drink?"

"Fuck off, Nyota," Jim snapped. A look of dark amusement crossed his deep blue eyes when she bristled at his familiar (albeit nearly derogatory) use of her first name.

Admittedly, he had hit on her every chance she'd given him and she always made comments like this. But this was a fucking low blow and Jim was going to make sure she damn well understood that. How he was going to do that was up in the air.

Pushing past Uhura, making sure to shoulder check her on the way, he kept his voice low but spoke clearly. "If you can't contain yourself, I expect your transfer request by 0800."

Never in his time at the Academy had he sounded so cold. Even when they were on the _Enterprise_ and he was provoking Spock, Uhura was sure he'd had something other than malice in his tone.

"Kirk," she called out, grabbing for his forearm. "_Captain_." Thankfully, that stopped him. "I'm sorry. Gaila was my friend, too, you know. I didn't mean to…I didn't realize…"

"It's fine, Lieutenant." He still didn't turn, trying to make sure he wasn't going to yell at her. That would be all the gossips needed to get going: Uhura and Kirk having a screaming match over – insert completely ridiculous and untrue conflict here. Was this really, after everything, how they were still going to interact? In the end, Jim shouldn't be so surprised.

Another point for Nature. Things didn't change. This fate shit was becoming more plausible with every passing second.

A part of his mind which sounded surprisingly like his stepfather started speaking up. _Pull your ass together, Kirk. What the hell? Seriously? _This_ is what you've let yourself turn into?_ Jim pushed the thoughts down and turned to look at Uhura.

"I know you don't like me. That's fine…sort of. I spent three years fucking working on it, I'll take it." Jim felt his voice slipping into a new sort of pitch. Suddenly, he realized he'd found his "Captain" voice. If he ever got along with Uhura, he'd remember to thank her for that. "But if you can't respect me, I'm putting a stop to it. We're going to have enough to prove without trying to one-up each other."

Uhura was merely nodding along, long ponytail bobbing slightly. Thoughts swam unspoken in her eyes, but Jim didn't have the patience to decipher what he saw there. She was the damn Communications Officer for God's sake. Let her decode _him_ because he wasn't about to play her own game against her. Not that he was above such things; he just wasn't as good at this one in particular.

When she finally spoke, she was incredulous and a little indignant. "Respect? You don't think I _respect_ you?" A little laugh cut through the tension clouded air, but Jim refused to relax out of his defensive stance. "When you rigged the Kobayashi Maru, I didn't respect you."

Jim opened his mouth to defend that whole scenario once again when she lifted a hand.

"_At the time_," she added hastily. "I get why you did it. I get why it was wrong, which you seemed to miss because, dammit, you can't win everything."

"You don't know me very well." Something about this conversation was bringing back the cocky. The slightly vulnerable moment he'd had irritated him to a nearly irrational level. Since there wasn't something potentially life-threatening readily available and he'd already gone the threat route (which had worked, granted, but wasn't all that fulfilling), Jim fell back on the last defense mechanism in his arsenal.

Practice allowed her to ignore the comment, nearly talking right over top of him. "But you have this belief in no no-win situations and you stood by that. _That_ is respectable. You put your life on the line for all of us when you could have gone about it a dozen ways. You do things _normal_ people don't because you believe in something. And _that's_ respectable." Uhura finally took a much needed breath. "I don't like you, but I respect the hell out of you, Captain Kirk."

"…Thank you." Pausing for a moment, Jim was accosted by the shock that not only did Uhura believe in him in her own way, but she was sure _he_ believed in _something_. All the while, he was questioning nearly every life theory he had ever had. "What is it I believe in, Uhura? That you're _so sure_ makes me admirable?"

"Yourself. The people you have working with you." She sounded like a teacher in a kindergarten classroom explaining how to hang coats and bookbags on the appropriate hooks, as if this were so obvious it had been explained a dozen times and still overlooked. "You sort of think the best of everyone. It's almost refreshing. Sometimes. When you're not just being an annoying jerk."

Jim's lips twitched into a crooked grin. He couldn't help it. They may never be the closest people in the universe, but they were growing to understand one another. Jim wasn't looking at her like his next good lay and she wasn't looking at him like an annoying son of a bitch with no potential. Things were moving up. Changing.

"Have a good night, Uhura."

"You too, Kirk."

They parted ways after one more shared look of animosity. This time, that animosity was different. Not forced, Jim wouldn't label it that as he walked away. No, it was playful. Sort of the way it was when Bones would bitch and moan while Jim just kept on doing whatever annoying thing the good doctor was currently contemplating sedating him for. It was a practiced interaction that made them what they were, but that didn't mean it never changed.

The small nagging voice in the back of his mind tried to throw him for a loop, make him second-guess himself. James Tiberius Kirk didn't do second guesses. He assessed the situation, made a snap decision based on whatever he had available, rolled the dice, and hoped he had luck on his side. Which usually he did.

He managed to keep the grin on his face as he realized Nature only had one point. Nurture was on the board with this one. An hour ago, he'd have been lamenting this development, but somehow, this started to look interesting.

Maybe he could learn something about…the universe? Himself? Life? What-the hell-ever. He could learn something from seeing what relationships meant. In the grand scheme, that seemed very important to this Tabula Rasa idea. He wasn't sure why, but Jim just _knew_ that he could crack this if he followed that angle. He was holding the decoder ring this time.

Now that he had a plan, his curiosity was driving him toward a resolution. He grinned a little wider into the growing darkness as lights started coming on along the sidewalk. Curiosity was a much less painful motivator than an existential crisis. He could so roll with this.

**

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**

AN:

I feel like I should make a concession here. There's really no _action_ to speak of coming with this story. I just feel like it's my duty to warn anyone reading it. The whole plot centers around Jim changing by NOT really doing anything instead of constantly being in action. It's all thought.

I hope that isn't terribly off-putting and people still want to read it, but if not, I'll understand. I do hope you still keep up with it though! Thanks for reading. I'm glad there are some of you who like it enough to review/favorite/alert. That makes me incredibly happy!

* XTina *


	4. Instinct

One more day, Jim mused as he waited for the shuttle he was on to stop and reveal the revitalized _Enterprise_. Just _one more fucking day _planet-side. After that, he had no idea when he'd see his home-world, let alone hometown, again. Daunting? Not as much as it probably should be.

For all the turmoil Jim had bouncing around inside his own skull, he still managed to keep an excited air about everything – straight down to a little bounce in his step. This was what he had always wanted (okay, since he got the ever loving shit beat out of him and was subsequently booted into reality by Pike in a dive bar), and he couldn't seem to keep the excitement down.

Not that he really wanted to.

He'd been feeling like complete shit for too long, far too conflicted. Ever since they returned and he got a good look at the list of the lost lives, reading each name he recognized several times and taking the trouble to look up the ones which he thought he should remember, he just couldn't seem to shake a haze that was constantly tugging at the back of his mind.

Then he went and got all fucking philosophical. Not cool, just … yeah, no. Sure, he had a plan on how to work through figuring out this new hang up, but that didn't make it easier. Not that Jim _preferred_ easy dilemmas, per se; but he had more important things than this new maze to the answer of a generally irrelevant question.

Jim had the route, but he still had to do the leg work. The leg work wasn't all that fucking simple, either. Wasn't there some poem pertaining to that? Wait. That was about two roads and taking the one covered in vines and shit.

All right, he actually had the Frost poem nearly memorized. There was a teacher when he was about a freshman in high school that had "seen so much potential" in him and drilled that poem into his head. Apparently, through all the later information vying to occupy every spare neuron he had, Jim managed to retain a few lines about a "road less traveled."

Appropriate, he thought with a small grin as he stepped off and took in the new shine of the _Enterprise_. Jesus Christ, she was a beautiful piece of work. Jim had admired the ship when he'd seen it in passing once. He didn't really get the chance when Bones was trying to kill him with various hyposprays or smuggle him onto the ship; Jim still wasn't entirely sure which goal had been most pressing for the doctor. When they finally managed to get back to the spacedock, no one wanted to look at her. She was mangled and it was fucking depressing. If he'd been the type, Jim would have wept over the sheer destruction of genuine art.

He was fairly certain the man he was meeting had at least shed a little tear in honor of seeing something so great torn down so far.

"Kirk!" In one word, Jim knew who it was and couldn't stop the grin. Montgomery Scott was a rather unique individual. Scottish, so eccentric he toed crazy, and a complete mastermind. Jim was a fan.

"Scotty," he held out a hand. After they greeted each other, Scotty giving his hand a shake which was only slightly too enthusiastic, they turned to admire their new home.

The engineer let out a long whistle. "Damn. Glad ye' got stranded on the ice berg, Cap'in. I'm one lucky man." There was pride oozing from his every pore and Jim knew exactly how he felt, especially when he chose to ignore how he'd ended up on Delta Vega to begin with.

"Ready to get a good look at her? She's in perfect condition this time."

"Aye. My type a' lady. All polished up an' pretty."

Laughing, Jim clapped a hand on Scotty's back and led the way over to the engineer who had been overseeing the repairs.

Even though they knew the ship's layout by then, Jim surprisingly didn't mind following some random maintenance guy around to double check everything which had previously been demolished. He didn't have the time to accurately check everything he needed to, but that's why his crew was coming in early. The senior staff, which was nearly a laughable term, was checking their own stations. Except engineering.

Momentarily forgetting why he hadn't thought he could handle this himself, he watched Scotty's bored expression as he wandered the corridors. These areas had been damaged on a superficial level at best. When they reached Scotty's new territory, however, the air around them charged with translucent exhilaration. The "kid in a candy store" cliché was about as trite as they came, but Jim wasn't quite eloquent enough to formulate a more appropriate metaphor.

"State o' the art!" And that was the last clear sentence Jim heard. Scotty went about removing panels to check wires and connections, making random exclamations of approval and muttering quietly about how he _may_ be able to change this or that to _improve_ them above _current_ Starfleet _standards_.

Jim knew enough to commend the repair team and sign off on everything. This was one hell of a ship and he couldn't quite get over it. Their guide seemed pleased and left them to it. With similar feelings, Jim did the same for Scotty and headed for the bridge.

He ran his hands over terminals, checking a few systems as he went. When he was sure he'd followed the basics of protocol and the computer systems seemed up to par, he headed for his favorite piece of equipment. The chair.

Damn, he _loved_ this thing. Grinning at full wattage even without an audience, Jim ran his hand over the back as he walked around. He stared for a few more seconds before sitting in it; all right, he sprawled. The thing was practically orgasmic, that's how enthralled he was.

Controls checked, re-familiarization with all the bells and whistles completed, Jim leaned back and took a good look around. He was trying to picture everyone there, manning their appropriate stations, when his eyes fell on the science station and he knew who would be there if he had his way.

Just like that, the grin started to fade and Jim was unceremoniously catapulted back into the depths of reflection. While he went about cataloguing the information he already had, yet again, Jim gave some serious thought to where this was going and why he was so incredibly taken with this task. He wasn't a psychiatrist, sociologist, or philosopher. If they couldn't figure this out, why was he trying again? Why was he comparing himself to someone who had spent a lifetime building a reputation, his own version 1.0?

Maybe no one could agree on an answer because it was different for everyone. That made sense. People loved to debate and when it came to things like life and the meaning of, no one could agree. Jim could fit this into his model easily. Whatever this Locke guy had to say about "Tabula rasas" was irrelevant because everyone needed their own answer.

Chekov was a genius and while Jim hadn't exactly delved deep into the kid's life, he thought that was a clear sign of blank slates and fate. Some things just didn't change no matter what you did. Then Uhura happened and shot that all to hell because their entire dynamic was changing and that was clearly a nurture scenario. A lightbulb started to flicker and Jim could see some fog clearing.

A breakthrough was coming, a sudden epiphany…If he kept at this for just another minute…

But he heard the turbolift stop and heavy footfalls were filling the air.

"Wondering where you got off to," Scotty grinned, hands in pockets and some dark grease smeared across his cheek. Jim tried to shake some sense into himself. He didn't get the façade up quick enough and Scotty's brow twisted in confusion. "Sho'd I come back? Getting a little acquainted with that chair there?"

A soft chuckle escaped Jim's throat before he gave it the all-clear to do so. He really needed to remind himself never to just barge onto the engineering deck because no one needed to know what Scotty did with his free time.

"Shut up," he laughed again and shoved out of his chair. "You ready to head out? All good down below?"

"In go'd shape!" Scotty nodded, surprisingly ignoring the double meaning Jim hadn't taken back. "She'll do us well, Kirk. No doubt 'bout that."

"Glad to hear it. I thought everything looked good." They took the lift back down and shared a companionable silence until Jim started thinking too hard and had to speak to ensure he kept a firm grasp on sanity.

"You're pretty damn good at what you do, Mr. Scott," Jim mused just for something to say.

The other man's face lit up a little. "Thank ye'. I like t' thin' so. It's just one o' those things, makes perfect sense."

Jim shook his head, calling for a shuttle they had on stand-by. The _Enterprise_ had been docked farther away than usual in order to give the repair crew more room to work. Both men turned to watch the ship just _be_ as they waited and Jim knew he couldn't complain about anything if the results were this satisfactory.

Before he acknowledged what was coming out of his mouth, he was asking Scotty questions. "How do you come up with some of what you do, anyway? You've got everything down to a science."

"It is science," the Scotsman laughed. "I can jus' see it. Put me up 'ere with warpcores an' narcelles an' I get it. Order to it, but ya gotta risk it. Ta'e some chances. You gon' stop me doing that?"

They both knew he wouldn't, within reason, so Jim didn't deign to respond. Instead, he was reorganizing his plan. Scotty was pretty open. Jim hadn't wanted to pry too much with Chekov because the kid had been a bit wrapped up in the pretty waitress and would have probably taken his questions as orders. Fairly certain Scotty wouldn't answer something too personal, Jim started firing with things he still needed answers to.

"Did you always want to do this, engineering on a starship, or did you just fall into it?" Jim felt like he was reading from a prompter and only altering necessary phrases. Had to start small, right?

"Working on ge'in to know the crew's inner-workings, Cap'in?" Scotty chuckled but answered before Jim could even begin to feel repentant. "There was some debate for awhile. Me mum was pushing for a doctor or 'least anything keepin' me planet-side. Da wanted someone t' ta'e over the family business. 'Bout got disowned, but this is it." He attempted to encompass all that was their future with one broad hand gesture.

Jim was a bit skeptical. From all the things Scott apparently knew, it was obvious the man had devoted his entire life to this. From what he did to get them out of the black hole that was the _Narada_, he was obviously damn good at it. Spock 1.0 had demonstrated Scott's genius by giving him a nudge toward formulas he would have invented eventually anyway. The sheer rapture Scotty fell into whenever he was presented with something pertaining to engineering proved that he probably hadn't developed many other hobbies.

"So wait," Jim started, hand making a rewind motion. "You went against your parents and just did this? They weren't…supportive?"

A shrug was the short answer. The long answer lasted most of the trip back and elaborated on how the Scott family was very small and didn't take kindly to having the only son up and leave to achieve something that hadn't fit into their plan. Scotty formed his own plan, however, and did what he wanted. Plans and parental consent be damned!

Again, Jim shouldn't be shocked. Had he been in a similar position, he would have done what Scotty did simply to be contradictory. Actually, he sort of had. His mother had practically begged him to do something productive and enlisted a whole slew of people to attempt various versions of persuasion. Jim had laughed in their faces, except his mother's; he placated her with vague and generally broken promises. He'd needed a challenge and maybe Scotty had been like that.

"Ever get discouraged and think you were wasting your time?" Jim's vocal tone was a bit more intense than he'd planned. He cleared his throat, brows furrowing. "Well, what I mean is…" He'd said what he meant, just not with much tact. Bones was working on teaching him proper, conversational tact. It wasn't working.

"No. I got the instincts for this," Scotty shrugged. "Like that McCoy of yours 'as go' the instinct for medical an' you go' the commanding instinct."

This stopped him short. Or maybe the way his stomach lurched toward his throat was from the unexpected stopping of the shuttle. Jim was still turning this over in his head as they stepped off. Scotty watched him for an extra minute, fairly certain cranks were visibly turning in Jim's eyes.

"Wait, what? I've got captain instincts?" Jim nodded at a few people from sheer obligation, but was still focused on the older man.

"You ne'er seemed t' have confidence issues." His skepticism was thick. "You ca' only teach so much. You, m' friend, got a gift. You just _know_ what to do."

"That a nice was of saying I learned how to work through adrenaline?" A smirk quirked up one corner of Jim's mouth.

"Yes." Scotty nodded and clapped a hand against Jim's shoulder. "Whate'er works. We got raw talent."

Jim was relieved and surprised, stunned but coherent. There were too many conflicting emotions to do much other than laugh. "I mention I like you?"

"Figured as much when I was on the list." Stabbing a hand over his shoulder, he spared a last look for Jim. "I go' a sandwich and beer wit' my name on it. Wan' t' come with?"

"No thanks. But I'll see you in the morning." Jim gave the guy a little shake of the shoulder before turning to go his own way. "Glad you approve."

"As well ye' shou'd be!"

This had definitely been a very productive day. One, Jim had seen his ship and was more than pleased with what had been done. Two, he'd gotten to be in someone else's head for a while and now understood a bit of how his Chief Engineer thought. Three, he'd generally gotten to know the before mentioned man, which was definitely going to be helpful in the future. Four, he'd been able to lean just a touch more fully toward some predetermined fates.

Montgomery Scott seemed fairly similar to James Kirk. Oh, their backgrounds were pretty damn different; but their personalities were a tad too similar to ignore. They'd both had some sort of latent talent that drove them toward their current path. If he was willing to listen to the other man's insights, at least. Which, honestly, he was fine with doing.

Not because he'd been praised, either. Jim realized what Scotty was saying. You could have the world stacked against you, everything pushing you to give in and give up. When you could just throw in the towel and get counted out, pushing on meant something.

Scotty was good at what he did and Jim would never deny that. More than what the brief conversation with Chekov had offered, Scotty gave him a colorful backlog instead of the black and white one that was on official documents. It would have been easy for Scotty to go into a different line of work. Clearly, he was smart and could have managed just about anything, but this was what he liked and what he chose.

A choice should imply nurture and shoot a blank slate into tiny pieces. Jim disagreed with that assumption. All he needed to do was consider what you did with what you had. Scotty was born with an ability to understand and manipulate complex systems. He'd been given enough character strength to follow that right up to the _Enterprise_. Jim could appreciate that as the natural order of things.

Thoughtful expressions were alternating with confused ones; Jim could feel when his face shifted from one to the other. He chose to ignore this as he made his way back to his quarters and determined to call his mother for a proper goodbye, or at least as proper as he could manage without going to Iowa.

As he was keying in his passcode, Jim remembered that near epiphany he'd had. What had that been? Where was he going with those thoughts? Trying to recall them felt futile. His head was too full of new ideas from Scotty. Nature was apparently up a step and that was okay with Jim. If he wasn't one for a challenge, he'd have called the game while he was ahead.

He was in the process of waiting more patiently than usual for his mother to answer his message when he muttered "Something's still missing…"

"What's missing?" The familiar voice reached him. Jim looked at the screen to see the smiling face of pretty much the only person who hadn't accepted him as a failure, at least at one point in time. He couldn't help smiling in return.

"Uh…I lost a shoe."

* * *

**AN: **First, I apologize for taking so long! I wanted desperately to get this up before now, but life happened. (I had to go to my parents' for a few days; my clumsy nature sprained my wrist; my dog is still recovering from knee surgery and requires CONSTANT supervision; I've been obsessed with an idea for a new story and trying desperately to work that out; and I've dived back into reading RPS, of all things.) Second, this is going to be long; and I am sorry for that, too. At any rate: Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I really am glad you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying being a little bit of a headcase while I'm writing Jim working through this issue. Now, to answer a couple questions:

Jim's coming across as a bit irrationally obsessed with the topic because I haven't given more of a reason than seeing a sign in a bar. That's intentional. Why he's so into figuring this out will come up…as soon as he figures it out himself. There are still a few chapters to get through before that gets explained so speculate on why he's comparing himself to the alternate/older version of himself in this whole mess at will! And if you're waiting on a specific character to pop up…well, I'm running through the major players, so I'm sure they will! I'm going to try to clear anything else up in the narrative. Also, it's been brought to my attention that I may be rushing a little and skimping on proper thought-processes for deciding which interaction goes where. Reading back, I completely agree and my chapters are probably going to get longer from here (though, hopefully, my ANs will get MUCH shorter).

About this chapter, I know the beginning reads as a recap. That's partially because that's just how I write especially since this is thought heavy and our favorite Captain is dwelling, but mostly because I had the thoughts post-uploading and liked them too much to let go. And I suck at writing accents – except Southern because that's what I've got myself.

As always reviews are good karma! I like to know what people think!

* XTina *


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